


wistful

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Smut Week [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (and he's determined to make Sansa feel good), (but apparently adults by Westeros standards), (it's important to mention that i've taken lots of liberties regarding canon events), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, Dry Humping, F/M, Fingering, Horny Teenagers, Jon is Jon, Jonsa Smut Week, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Unbeta'd, the sin is real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 22:13:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12850581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: in which Sansa manages to hold onto some dreams; Jon is there for the ride.[written for theJonsa Smut Week, day two - everything except consummation]





	wistful

**Author's Note:**

> a prequel to [silk](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12802629)

A maid; she wants to be a maid until the day they are to be wed.

 

Life has taken so much from her—Father, Mother and Robb, and Bran and Arya and Rickon. True, there’s a possibility that her younger siblings live _still_ , a great possibility – but they’re not here _now_ , and Sansa’s learned to temper her wistfulness, learned to expect nothing good to come her way.

 

So what little she’s managed to save, what little she’s managed to hold on to— _cling_ with all her might—Sansa’s long decided it would be hers, and hers _alone_ to give to whomever she wants. Her maidenhead and her claim to Winterfell. Those seems to be what people covet the most; what everyone seems to be willing to force from her if need be.

 

Once, Sansa thought those came hand in hand – her time in The Vale cured her of that notion.

 

_(After Ser Jaime and Brienne had come to rescue her, had taken her away from Littlefinger, she’d thought—her maidenhead, yes, Ser Jaime could, if she were to ask, he would—perhaps. But – she’d never mustered enough courage to actually ask, and then she’d seen how he’d looked at Brienne. So, no, Sansa chose not to in the end.)_

 

Now— _now_ there’s Jon. Her brother-turned-cousin; Jon who’d gone to war for her, to win their home back. Who had given her safety, had placed a crown made of swords atop her head— _Winterfell belongs to you, the North belongs to you_ —Jon, whose only wish ever had been to be a Stark and had had it ripped from his hands.

 

 _Still a Stark_ , she thinks, breath leaving her in a rush, _he is a Stark to me. And he will be, officially, to the rest of Westeros within a moon’s turn._

 

There’s Jon, rebuilding her belief in _dreams_ and hopes and songs. No, life is not a song, but it sure can get near enough to it at times—for the right person, _with_ the right person. So, those dreams she’d thought long lost – those have come back.

 

And her dreams of giving her maidenhead to her kind, gentle, and loving lord husband and make their bedding something special are _suddenly_ , once again, cradled in the palms of her hands.

 

But that doesn’t _mean_ she cannot experience pleasure or – do things prior to it, right? Her soon-to-be husband had been all too eager to show her, all the delightful manners in which one can—in which _she_ can.

 

“Jon,” his name is but a breathy whisper, it must set him off, for he groans and presses her harder against a weirwood tree. “ _Jon_.”

 

Sansa gasps when his hands wrap around her thighs and pull her up against him; despite her heavy gown and his layers of clothing, she can still feel him hard against her private parts. It’s the middle of the longest winter Westeros has seen in a while, feels harsher in the aftermath of countless wars—yet all Sansa feels is the unbearable heat of Jon’s body suffocating her.

 

 _I ought to push him away_ , she thinks, might even laugh as her hands grab hold of his shoulder before pulling him closer _, oh, but I won’t_. As inappropriate as it is, Sansa cannot deny that she likes it – likes the feel of his body pressed up against her own, of his hands mapping the curves of her, his mouth leaving scorching paths as Jon kisses his way to places none other than her has ever known.

 

_Yes, we ought to stop, if anyone were to come by…_

 

One of her hands fists over his curls, pulls hard enough to ensure his attention, but once Jon has his eyes focused on her face, she doesn’t speak, nor does she push him away—she kisses him. Sansa pulls harder still and dives into a bruising kiss, the kind Jon had introduced her to once she’d told him not to treat her as if she were made of porcelain.

 

He groans again, slips his tongue past her lips as he urges her legs around his waist. “Gods, Sansa,” his hips grind into hers, almost desperately, in time to his fevered chants of _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_.

 

She whimpers, rolls her hips to meet his thrusts and _clings_ ; Sansa breaks the kiss, gasping for breath, and suddenly – vaguely is very grateful for the cold, for her high-collared gowns, grateful that the reddened marks Jon leaves on her neck can be hidden.

 

And then—

 

Having secured her well enough, Jon must feel confident that she won’t fall—his hands move; his right hand goes to cup her breast, swiping his thumb over her nipple, while the other struggles to pull up her skirts. It’s a daunting task, one-handed, but he manages, and the sweet pressure of his hard length against her with less layers of clothing between is _incredible_.

 

“Oh…”

 

Deep in his chest, Jon moans, low and rumbling – she feels it _more_ than she hears it. Sansa presses the heels of her boots to his bum, and she _swears_ —they both tremble. With one hand bracing her weight by holding her hips, Jon makes use of the other to loosen the laces of her bodice; he chases her lips again.

 

 _It’s not enough_ – the thought comes unexpectedly, because what they do has her gasping and _shaking_ and moaning, but somehow Sansa knows she needs more. The laces give; Jon pauses long enough to seek her permission with a look, she nods.

 

And he latches onto her teats like a hungry babe. Only, he takes the time to play—flicking and nipping, before sucking on it. Laving attention to both tits, until she’s a squirming mess in his arms, rolling her hips to chase that perfect pressure she’s yet to find.

 

“ _Jon_ ,” Sansa gasps, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder. “Jon, I need—”

 

Pulling away from her chest, it sounds like it pains him; Jon presses his lips to her neck and asks:

 

“What—” he angles his hips, pushes up into her, over and over and over again, perhaps knowing what she wants and trying to give “—what do you need?”

 

_Space, I need to breathe. I need you to move back, only a little. I need, I need…_

 

“…more. I need more,” she gasps.

 

He stops, contrary to her wishes, stops and pulls back a little. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Despite her confusion, despite her initial reaction to make him resume his previous and more pleasurable task—keeps rolling her hips chasing that pressure, keeps tugging at his curls to get his mouth on her chest—her answer is immediate. Jon smiles and kisses her lips tenderly, whispering that she should stand on her own feet for this.

 

Sansa tilts her head askance, but does as he says, sliding her legs down; her skirts remain bunched up around her hips, the cold air on this winter day would have her shivering – and she does shiver, but not of cold, her body feels too hot for that, _Jon’s_ body feels too hot to even acknowledge it. He kisses her again, slow and passionate, and soon her wits scatter to the sensation of Jon and his talented hands and equally talented mouth.

 

When Jon’s hand slides under her smallclothes she moans, breaks the kiss to catch her breath – this is not new, incredibly good, _yes_ , but not new. She’d thought Jon was going to do something new—oh, he slips two fingers into her, presses the heels of his palm to that bundle of nerves that never fails to leave her mind blissfully blank and, _oh_ , but that feels good.

 

“This’ll feel good,” he whispers, and she wants to say yes, _yes,_ she knows it will; they’ve done this before, they have—

 

“Oh…!”

 

There’s no time to ask what he’s about to do; Jon drops to his knees, hooks her leg over his shoulder, kisses the inside of her thigh. His fingers don’t cease their movement, twisting and rubbing and she’s already _there_.

 

—and then Jon puts his mouth on her; and then Sansa feels herself burst.


End file.
